A Hundred Years from Yesterday
by SihayaFaulkner
Summary: Seventeen years after the War, the survivors still bear their scars. The last step to recovery is slow, and everyone must find their own way to live with what they have been given. SSHG Character Death
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. They are the intellectual property of JKR.

* * *

_We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels, we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds._

_Uncle Vanya_ – Anton Chekhov

Third week September, 2016

Excerpt from A History of the Wizarding Penal System, annotated by the archivist of the Strafdenken Institute in Hamburg.

The now historic escapes from Azkaban Fortress in both 1993 and 1996, once they became common knowledge, left a shamefaced Department of Magical Law Enforcement the task of explaining the lapse in security.

It would seem that the excuse the wardens gave, namely that they were not informed that Voldemort was at large and planning a war against wizarding-kind, did not stop an investigatory committee from firing the top three men for failure to complete the objectives for which they were hired.

Politics at its finest.

In the next five years the make-up of the administration of Azkaban was to change four more times before becoming what we recognise as today's prison. Arguably, the wizarding world has never cared to distinguish between the punishment of capital crimes and those of the more mundane misdemeanors, and has treated all those convicted with the same standards.

_High security risks have always been housed is a separate wing, but records remaining from the time of Sirius Black's escape failed to show a significant difference in the watchfulness of the jailers._

And so it was that, by the time the investigation into the negligence of the wardens took place in 1999, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had begun its reevaluation of prisoner transfer and containment procedures at Azkaban Fortress.

It was then, and still remains, that the prison's most distinguishing feature (apart from its island locale) continued to be its primary defense against escape: namely, the Dementors. Although it was in mid-2002 that Minister Dumbledore outlawed the use of the Dementor's kiss as corporal punishment, nothing has prevented the Minister from utilizing them as guards. One does not wish to delve into the presumably messy business of what was done as a stop-gap to keep the Dementors from following their natural (if disturbing) instincts. Presumably the issue of long term sustenance for these creatures has been addressed as there have been no reports of prisoners whose souls have gone missing.

The common witch or wizard has no interest in the unsavory details of how their communities are protected from these convicts so long as the Dementors serve their purpose ably. For who else could unobtrusively keep a wizard drained of his magic sufficiently to prevent wandless feats of desperation and escape? And with no lasting effects?

_It is said that this effect, which drains the wizard of magic and happy thoughts, is only temporary, and once a wizard is removed from the Dementor's influence may recover. After they have undergone a convalescence, their magic will begin to slowly regenerate. They are left with only the lingering memory of constant despair as a reminder of their atonement for their actions. It is theorized that the process is similar to the maturation of wizarding children during the years before their adolescence. A witch or wizard isn't born with their full magical potential; one needs time to grow into one's strength._

This assertion is conditionally accepted by those who have inquired into the workings of the Dementors; for who could believe that the havoc wrought by Black's escape had been the work of a wizard without his magical faculties intact?

The newest contributions to the penal system came near the turn of the millennium. It had been the brainchild of a mid-level Muggleborn who, it was said, was inspired by the methods of our magic-impaired brethren. Every wizard (or witch, in these modern times) under maximum-security was fitted with an enchanted wristband. From what can be gleamed from second-hand sources, it would seem that the magical bracelet, once in place, apparates the subversive to his (or her) own cell block in Azkaban. Should the individual manage to absent himself from this location, the band would immediately reactivate and return him to where he belonged. In theory, the rumours told, the removal of this band upon one's release frees the wizard from such a bind and the apparition effect reverses to return this wizard to the location of his capture and arrest.

_We have been unable to substantiate these claims at this time. The Aurors were quick to seize the patent for the band and safeguard it from falling into the wrong hands. The reversal process is also untested as the subversives now housed within Azkaban are under life sentences and are not to be released._

This past decade has given rise to the common opinion that no one ever leaves Azkaban alive and sane…

End except.

* * *

One opinion, in fact, that had remained unchallenged until the day Harry Potter paid an unscheduled visit on Minister Dumbledore at his home in Bristol. 

Taken to bed, he had called his young protégé to his side with the gravest of news. The press had naturally appeared outside the front gates, hoping for another front page story of some momentous joint venture between two of the world's most famous wizards. Anxiously they waited to catch sight of the two together again as their targets remained, in congress, behind closed doors for nearly two and one-half hours. The lights of the house flickered briefly at quarter of nine in the morning just before the Boy Who Lived stepped out to somberly meet the press. Flash bulbs popped in rapid succession as the news was announced.

Albus Dumbledore was dead.

* * *

AN: Well here it begins- my oft mentioned 'Plot'. I wanted to get it up and started before the new book came out and I had more canon to ignore. I'm several chapters in, so updates will be slow depending on how much rewriting the admins have me do. (and depending on how much I work on my other fics). 

After three years of SS/HG fic, there is very little that isn't cliché or done to death. Hopefully I've managed something interesting here, even if it went more on the angsty side than I anticipated. I promise; only a few chapters of back-story and unhappiness before it lightens up.

I began this in October to prove to myself that I could write something substantial, something that wasn't just smut. I know how this will go, and it is to please myself, but I hope you enjoy it just the same.

Credit where credit's due:

I've taken Shiv's characterization of Dumbledore in her De mortuis… one step further. Love you, Shivlet.

manic was writing (having not spoken to her in years, she may still be) a similar fic with our boy and Azkaban, Fugue State. But I think we're both going in different enough directions that any similarities are superficial.

Lastly, and more obliquely, the idea for this came after reading Hayseed's Dark Gods… . I think it only provided inspiration, but if I unconsciously borrowed something, I apologize and will happily credit her with genius.


	2. Chapter 1

_"Eh, brother, but nature has to be corrected and guided, otherwise we'd all drown in prejudices. Without that there wouldn't be even a single great man. 'Duty, Conscience,' they say- I'm not going to speak against duty and conscience, but how do we really understand them?" _

_Crime and Punishment_ - Fyodor Dostoyevsty

The door opens on a man.

It swung silently despite the age and condition of its hinges. Decades of intermittent use and wet sea air had left it rusted. One would not expect it to move, let alone do so smoothly and without the grind of metal on metal.

The torchlight from the hallway was gentle but the wand, pointed at him with a whispered _'Lumos_', blinded his eyes. His head had turned away and toward the dark corner of the cell. He seemed to sink further into the hard cot as he waited.

But it doesn't come. Whatever blow he expected did not land. Disconcerted, he kept utterly still, holding himself in a state somewhere between unconsciousness and screaming.

But it doesn't come. The gripping chill that seeped into his bones, the icy breath that filled his lungs -- not there. No drowning, no shaking. No fear.

His mind scrambled to keep up. Maybe this was what it felt like to die. Nothingness. Oblivion tinged with the anticipation of the unimaginable horrors ahead. If this was what the gentle lips of death brought, he ought to have rethought his answer all those years ago.

"Snape."

The voice shook him from his misbegotten reverie. His name, he knew. It has been years since he has heard it uttered, but the sound of it barked past impatient lips still managed to unlock every memory carefully shut away.

One by one the bricks around his past fell.

"Snape. You're free."

That name again; impersonal and impatient and clearly expecting something from him. Something he knew he would be unable to give.

The light moved closer as the man brought shaking hands up to protect his face. A hand reached out and gripped his shoulder. They pulled him up and pried his hands away leaving him to be blinded by the light. He screamed then, for every moment he had not in his entire life.

He might have rather it had been a Dementor.

* * *

Hermione Granger remembered ten years after Voldemort's fall. The Daily Prophet had put together a special edition to commemorate the wizards who had accomplished such a victory. Ha! She snorted at the memory. The witches who had been a part of it - a bloody great part of it - were conspicuous in their absence from the headlines. Minerva, Vector, Molly Weasley-- their roles forgotten amidst the bonhomie of the victors. Her own picture had only been there because Harry had insisted on having one of the three of them together again. Herself. Ron. Harry. The Golden Trio.

_Ha!_ She thought again. Seven years after that photo was published she never saw them anymore. An occasional owl post to show they hadn't forgotten their 'best friend.' An occasional pint shared before they were off to some other exotic location for celebrity Quidditch. Apparently there was no statute of limitations on exploiting one's part in the victory of the century. Nor could the passage of years make them any less thick-witted that they would notice how she met their token correspondence with nothing more than a perfunctory smile and hug. To call them friends would be to go too far. Too much time. Too much Quidditch. Too many self-congratulations.

She picked up today's Daily Prophet.

**The Legend of Dumbledore to Live On**

Our Great Minister of Magic-- magnanimous even after death! The reading of Minister Dumbledore's will brought with it a lasting reminder of why he will forever be known as the Greatest Wizard since Merlin! Accompanying the heartfelt farewell message to the wizarding world (for the full text see page 3) were the surprise gifts dedicated 'to those I've loved and must leave behind.'

Among the more private legacies were undisclosed gifts set aside for those in his intimate circle; of particular note were those promised to Harry Potter, named executor of Minister Dumbledore's estate. A source close to the deceased says Potter was the recipient of a phoenix as well as the sword of Godric Gryffindor, himself. Potter, with his customary humility, refused to comment on his gifts, saying only, "Albus was a deeply private man and I will respect his wish for privacy." What a dear!

The bulk of the Dumbledore estate, however, will be split between three beneficiaries. (For complete legal details see page 10b). Those witches and wizards who have children at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will be pleased to hear that, in addition to stipends available through the Remuneration Fund for Muggle-Inclined Families, all multi-blooded families who qualify may have their school materials paid for out of the Dumbledore Memorial Fund. Good show, Minister!

A smaller portion (but no less important!) is the rededication of the Spell Damage floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Formerly the Janus Thickey Ward, it will now be renamed the Albus Dumbledore Memorial Ward (against the Minister's wishes) to commemorate the generous donation he has made. Those poor souls who suffer the lasting indignities of that messy war business will now have an improved care regiment and new beds once the funds are made available.

The last beneficiary will be the War Memorial, dedicated not yet ten years ago. The money set aside was to benefit the caretakers with replanting the garden, but the Board of Trustees unanimously voted to erect a statue of the late Minister instead. The statue will be placed in the center of the memorial ring where the names of those who fell may be still read and touched to reveal their portrait. (See Memorial Renovation Plans page 2) Plans are still being made with Potter over whether this statue may mark the Minister's last resting place as well.

A final request was made, bizarre as it may be, and must be repeated here per the Minister's request. Convicted Death Eater, subversive, and former Potions Master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Severus Snape, was granted a full pardon for acts committed against wizarding-kind.

"It is my final wish that Severus Snape be freed from Azkaban prison," the Minister wrote. "He has served his time for that which he committed. It is my desire that he be granted leniency for the dedication which he showed to the education of our young witches and wizards and that his life sentence be commuted immediately to time served."

Such a surprising act is, of course, only to be expected from the wizard who was always known to be a bastion of mercy and forgiveness. Truly no other could have rallied Britain to put the memories of the War behind them and enter into this new, glorious era of cooperation between all magical peoples, regardless of their upbringing...

Hermione resisted throwing the paper across the room only barely. Severus Snape. Another name conspicuously absent from the official history books. Leniency! Pardoned for crimes done at the Headmaster's request! All for the sake of the Order, he said.

_Ha!_ How Dumbledore had covered up Snape's role as a spy so completely she'd never know. Severus Snape. Trundled up with the rest of all that unseemly war business and tucked neatly away under lock and key. Out of sight, out of mind, and Dumbledore's white hat was immaculate once more.

Hermione hadn't wanted to consider it at the time, but she supposed Harry had a played a rather key part in it. There had been too many times during their time at school where the enmity between Harry and Snape had nearly cost them the war. No matter how often it seemed that she or Remus or Mrs. Weasley reminded Harry of the importance of the work Snape was doing, the hard glint remained in Harry's eye at the mention of the spy's name.

Hermione herself had written it off as teenage rebellion; the result of an unstable home life and absent male role models.

But it served as a convenience for Dumbledore once Voldemort was dead in the ground. He had gone about collecting Death Eaters and corralling them into group trials as quickly as possible. Most of them were not even announced publicly until after the convictions. Snape had been sentenced and in Azkaban a month before she had heard what had happened.

Harry had served as the distraction.

Harry who had to have them with him while he went to St. Mungo's. Harry who had to have them prepare him for the press conferences. Harry who needed her to pick out his dress robes. Harry who cried in her arms and confessed to being the one to find Hagrid's body. Harry who did everything he could to keep them out the way while Dumbledore took care of the clean up.

Hermione, in her most cynical moments, wondered whether Dumbledore had planned this the entire time. He was never terribly concerned about Harry's abuse of Snape. Even when Harry was at his most hostile – their shouting matches at Grimmauld Place had rivaled those of Snape and Black years past – Dumbledore did little more than sit back and look disapproving while Lupin separated the two. She didn't care to speculate on whose suggestion it was to send Snape to Azkaban with the rest of the Death Eaters.

'I am so very sorry that you had to suffer his temper for seven years, Harry. If there is anything I can… Oh? Well he did help us … _but_ if you think it's for the best...'

The war orphans weren't the first to demand reparations.

When she had finally cared to consider her complicity, it was difficult not to try to explain away every action in order to assuage her guilt. How was she to know that no one from the Order would testify for Snape? How could she have known anyone would need to? The idea would have been preposterous.

"I didn't know!"

It sounded pathetic even to her ears.

Hermione shook her head. It did no good to dwell on it. Snape was getting out now and maybe maybe there would be a way to clear his name.

But she had retired from the Ministry long ago; her words had long since failed to hold sway over the course of the nation. A generation had now come of age without knowing who Severus Snape was. How could they? Three Potions Masters had stood in his place in that time, and he was not nearly wicked enough to be taught in History of Magic along side the likes of Lucius Malfoy. He remained barely a footnote in the annals of the war, when he had done more than even Harry to bring about its end.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her hands over her face. Her tea had gone cold and Harry's solemn face staring up at her from the cover of the Daily Prophet made her mind churn with haunting possibilities.

She had to get out of this flat; the walls were getting stifling.

Work. Always the great balancer. Hermione collected two of the manuscripts that were due and shrunk them down. The sun was waning in its elliptical and shone warmly through the gossamer folds of the window drapes. If she hurried, she would make the evening post and still have time for a late tea.

Coat on. Wand in hand. She was ready to go.

She Apparated to Hogsmeade and walked the short distance to the post office, wondering for the three hundredth time why the publishers dictated all parcels be sent from this location. She had once tried to send them with her private owl only to have it sent back. Whatever enchantment kept them from receiving mail in such a fashion has left her owl extremely distressed - the poor thing had pecked at her hand for _weeks_ after – and in the possession of a very nastily worded Howler.

There was nothing to it though, they were explicit about this requirement, and if nothing else, it got her out of the house. (Hermione doubted whether her owl would have even agreed to make the trip a second time.) She reminded herself that it was a pleasant day out; she could actually see the sun.

The best part of all was that it was the middle of the week and there were no students to get underfoot. Hermione just wasn't up to dealing with the little bleeders.

"Two cerulean barn owls, please," Hermione said, once she reached the front of the queue. She enlarged the manuscripts and tied them together with the provided bits of twine and filled out the owl order form. She waited as they coaxed two of the sulkier owls off their perch and sent them off laden with her parcels.

There. She'd been productive at last. Now she could spend the next week dwelling futilely over the past without a looming deadline.

Hermione sighed.

This wasn't going to work. She'd go have a butterbeer for old time's sake and then regroup. Maybe she'd even visit her parents. They'd been angling to see her for a past few months and talking to them would be - for once, blissfully - absent of any and all references to wizards long forgotten.

She got no further than a few steps out of the door way when a slow, lumbering figure caught her eye.

No, it just couldn't be.

The man half-stumbled and lifted his head. Sunken, hallow eyes stared right through her.

Snape.

* * *

AN: Quick note- going to be in NZ on vacation for two weeks. More updates probably won't be here until the beginning of July. 


	3. Chapter 2

_"We all carry within us our places of exile, our crimes, and our ravages. But our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to fight them in ourselves and in others." _

_The Rebel_ - Albert Camus.

Snape had been poked and prodded along into a holding cell before his eyes had adjusted to the light.

He blinked, thankful the guards had finally ceased to point their wands in his face. The sconces that lined the walls flickered dully, and gave his eyes a chance to adjust. Still murky, but at least the spots had receded from his vision. Slowly he raised his head to look at his keepers. Most were familiar, at least in scent, and had passed by his cell at least once during his confinement.

Snape's eyes dimly focused on a crack running along the aged stone wall.

_One, two, three on the left. One on the right._

The habit of keeping his back to the wall hadn't been broken. Instinct told him how many people were around him even while he was lacking most of his faculties. Experience meant his unconscious took over whenever the rest of him was weakened. Cruciatus. Imperius. Order meetings.

Had he been able, Snape would have been reassured by his return to old behaviors.

The crack bent sharply to the left at the next stone.

_Door bearing south-southeast. Window barred. Focus on the second; he's weak with rheumatism._

The guard in question limped past Snape's line of sight, rubbing absently at his hand as he opened the door. The light was much stronger outside the room and overwhelmed the quiet glimmer of the torches.

Snape frowned as his eyes became unfocused with the disturbance. It took him several attempts to find where the crack left off.

_Auror, that one. Right sleeve, wand. Left sleeve, knife._

A dark shade moved into his field of vision and lifted his chin.

Snape recoiled. The touch felt cold and clammy despite how chilled he was. A grey mediwitch bustled around his immediate vision and made a diagnosis with her wand. She sounded like a fly buzzing in his ear. Had he been stronger, he might have swatted her away.

"He's lucky to be as well as he is."

He choked as she tipped a vial down his throat.

His vision misted. Edges became softer, and the fly seemed to be much farther away.

"Malnourished, dehydrated and he has what looks to be chronic pneumonia. Will he getting the recuperative care he needs?"

_Buzz buzz buzz._

She sniffed at the silence that answered her.

The crack split into three veins, meandering further apart. Each shattered into a spider's web of smaller splinters and disappeared, finally, into the floor.

Apparently satisfied, she signed away his health and removed herself from the room.

His head was pounding, the pressure made worse by the droning litany of Ministry decrees and formal declarations. _Tedious, very tedious_.

He hadn't noticed he had fallen over until he felt himself being roughly pulled upright. Grubby hands held his head still as they forced another vile potion into his mouth.

_Too much Shrivelfig_, was his last thought before the blackness came.

He would walk a free man a few hours later.

When Snape awoke, he was standing near the edge of the rocks outside the fortress walls.

The moisture in the air was refreshing; it had been a long time since he hadn't needed to breathe the stale air of the other prisoners. He inhaled and swayed on his feet. The guard next to him caught Snape's arm while he regained his balance.

Snape blinked until he saw the line of dowdy officials - Ministry by the look of it - neatly queued in front of him.

The wind whipping off the sea in a great gust led to a brief scramble to keep from losing their hats to the sea. Snape, far too brittle to notice, stood stock still while the parchment the Auror had been reading from flew back into his face.

They graciously transfigured his standard prison garb from the recognizable black and grey stripes to a drab, matte blue. Their generosity extended further to include a threadbare cloak to ward off the autumn air. This, too, passed unnoticed to Snape who was staring with an unhealthy fixation at the cragged walls plummeting into the waves below.

The chinking of coin caught his attention finally and he had a moment to look up before something was tossed at him. He flinched back as the coin purse made contact with his chest and landed in the dirt at his feet. Snape rubbed the bruise forming underneath his robes as he bent down to retrieve it.

He held the weight in his hands; it felt heavy to him.

The buzzing came slowly back into focus.

"...17 Galleons, 3 Sickles, 8 Knuts remitted to Prisoner four-ansuz-eight-zed-three-uruz, Snape, upon his release. Recorded this day…"

The voice faded from Snape's consciousness as he peered down at the pouch in his hand. Severance pay, he supposed. A pittance to be paid in full for time spent: a Galleon for every year, a Sickle for every month, and one old Knut for each day. Every moment of living hell recorded in a ledger and checked off by some faceless Ministry drone.

They were speaking again, much more closely than before, but Snape was lost again in memories. Parts of his mind that had been locked safely away realigned into a moment of pure anguished synergy.

Snape's fingers clenched into fists to keep from shaking as the warden inserted the key to his wristband. It glowed eerily and then disappeared, leaving Snape standing alone in the cold morning air of Scotland, far from where he had been. The exile returned.

Instinct took over once more. Snape took his first steps of freedom and began to walk.

* * *

Forty-five minutes after Hermione sent her first owl, the gates of Hogwarts swung obediently open for her. 

Hermione gathered up the folds of her robes and briskly made her way across the uneven grounds.

Twice now, she had to stop and brace herself to keep from fainting.

_Slow, calm breaths, Granger. You're not fifteen anymore and too old to be running this much_. Hermione inhaled deeply, thankful for the crisp country air.

Snape. He had looked _awful_. She had stood in the street watching him pass her, hoping for some sort of recognition to flash in his eyes. Hermione prayed that she had been mistaken when he had stared right though her. That it hadn't been him. _Awful._

Snape had shuffled through the small crowd of shoppers, dragging his feet heavily along the cobbled stone road. The toe of his shoe clipped an uneven edge and made him stumble. _Stumble_. Snape didn't stumble. She had watched him once during the final confrontation run headlong into the fray, dodging curses without so much as blinking. He had never been unbalanced around her before.

Had she not been frozen in shock, she would have rushed to his side. As such, Hermione could merely watch as Snape regained his footing and glanced around, looking all but lost. He looked almost… panicked. Frightened that he hadn't known where he was. That expression was enough to bring his appearance to the forefront of Hermione's dumbstruck mind.

His robes had hung loosely on his frame with the material opened at the neck. Hermione's eyes had settled on his shoulders; his collar bones jutted out in sharp relief to the rest of his chest. His skin had looked parchment thin, as if she could have touched him and watched as he crumbled in her hands. And Hermione would have sworn she would have been able to count every rib. _Like too little butter spread over too much toast_, was the first thing she had thought. She had forgotten who had first told her that.

She looked up at Snape's face then – painfully thin and dehydrated – and his complexion had a ghastly pallor to it. Like the mummies her mother had taken her to see at the British Museum. It was as though they had drained him of all colour until his hair and skin had taken on the same terrible grey tinge. Snape had long moved on by the time Hermione had run back into the owl post office to warn Minerva she was coming, but try as she might she could not forget the deadened look of Snape's eyes.

Hermione shuddered again and quickened her pace.

Once inside she made her way down the long corridors in search of the Transfiguration Mistress. Minerva's quarters were, naturally, at the base of Gryffindor tower, but sufficiently out of the way for Hermione to avoid the majority of the student body.

The Head of House in question promptly answered Hermione's anxious knocking.

"Goodness child, you look like you've seen the ghost of Tom Riddle."

_You're not far off._

Hermione allowed herself to be pulled inside with a rare show of maternal affection. Minerva sat an unresponsive Hermione down in one of the well worn old armchairs that spotted the room. She joined her former pupil a few moments later, glasses in hand.

The younger witch always marveled at the speed with which alcohol materialized during these visits with her former mentor.

"Come now, take a sip." Hermione coughed at the first hasty swallow. "That's it. Now tell me. What prompted this visit, hmm? You're not one to get so easily worked up."

After several slower sips of Minerva's scotch, Hermione was feeling more like herself.

"Didn't you see the papers?" Hermione queried in lieu of an explanation.

The answering 'Pah!' was spat with considerably less vitriol than she knew Minerva was capable of. Dumbledore's death had dulled the venom in her voice but what took its place disturbed Hermione even more. There was the specter of vindictive glee reflected in Minerva's eyes. Very unsettling. Hermione could understand the anger and sympathize with the bitter frustration. She had spent almost half her life being indignant over one injustice or another: her Muggle-born status, house-elves, Quidditch fans. And she had always been more than willing to make her opinions known to whatever hapless fool who was tactless enough to bring it up with her.

But being pleased by another's death? No.

There had only ever been one person Hermione had ever wished dead, and despite everything she had seen, she still believed Dumbledore was no Voldemort.

"You can't tell me you were surprised by any of that rubbish," Minerva said.

Hermione shook her head. "No. I thought you might be pleased with the stipends."

"There have always been plenty of private donors to make up for the lean years in Ministry support. I'd rather go begging in the streets of Hogsmeade before I took that ruddy man's blood money!"

An unattractive red flush crept up Minerva's neck. She was piqued and had to run her hand over her hair to smooth her ruffled fur.

The mention of begging brought the image of Snape sharply back into focus.

"Did you read to the end?"

"Severus, you mean." Minerva's demeanor changed drastically then and she looked every one of her 93 years. "He was always the hardest done by. Even when he was a student here, there was a bit of hero worship on Severus' part. He was a bit like Harry in that way, but that overstuffed buffoon never gave Severus one bit of quarter. It's not difficult to imagine why he joined up with Riddle."

There was one awful moment when several windows aligned in Hermione's mind and brought her to one horrifying conclusion: Dumbledore had meant for this to happen. Forty years of careful manipulation led to this. She was certain Dumbledore manipulated Harry into helping to conspire against Snape. That degree of malice would never have manifested from teenage rebellion alone. He had had a hand in it. Nurturing the hostility until Harry had become so hardened against Snape to leave him to suffer. She could hardly expect the same not to be true here. Was that the plan all along? To have someone Dumbledore could eventually influence on the inside? That would mean Snape's entire life had be sacrificed, and for what?

Her eyes suddenly pricked with tears out of pity for the man and she quickly hid her face from Minerva by refilling their glasses.

If Minerva noticed, she didn't say and continued talking. "I never could forgive myself for not being there. We all would have spoken for him!"

_But we didn't later. We weren't kept away all these years. We could have spoken up at any time_.

"I saw him - in Hogsmeade - right before I owled you. It was awful."

_Of course it was awful, Granger. How else would he be after 17 years in Azkaban? Stop twittering about_.

"Did you? On his own? I did wonder whether they were just going to kill him anyway despite all that nonsense in the paper."

"He looked like a shell," Hermione stuttered. "There was nothing left of him!" She realized she was getting slightly hysterical. The risen possibility that he'd been thrown to the Dementors before his release raised an anxiety in Hermione she wasn't accustomed to.

A gentle hand reached out and pulled the glass out of her grasp and sat it on the table. The hand returned and began rubbing circles into her palms until the panic subsided.

"Are they just leaving him out there? All alone? He can't possibly be capable of taking care of himself. What about money? Didn't they strip him of all his assets like everyone else?" Hermione rambled on as each new concern sprung to mind, not thinking to censor her mouth.

She looked up at Minerva who was much closer now and was soothed by the compassion she saw in those eyes.

It didn't bring her comfort for long though, because Hermione had a suspicion that Minerva would forget this as soon as she was gone. The silence that lay between them was suggestive. Minerva was happy to stay cloistered in these hallowed halls, cursing Albus and his betrayal, and any guilt she still carried with her would not be enough to send her to Snape's aid.

The realization shook Hermione to the core. She needed space to clear her head and process everything she'd seen today.

"Thank you for the drink, Minerva, but I have to make the last owl times for work. You know how they are with after hours posts." Hermione forced a smile on her face and extricated herself from Minerva's embrace. _I need to leave before I see any more._

The older woman did not seem to trust the abrupt volte-face but nevertheless led Hermione to the door.

"Do come back for dinner soon. It's a shame you won't take the position here, it's still open if you want another week to consider it. You'd be perfect for it. You practically wrote the curriculum."

Minerva tried for the fifth time to convince Hermione to teach Multi-Magical Incorporation – the pompous new name for Muggle Studies with a special emphasis on integrating Muggle-borns into the new world of magic. It had been one of her specialties at the Ministry.

_Torture is more like it_. Hermione had tried to explain that teaching just wasn't for her as long as three rounds of Cruciatus curses were still not allowable disciplinary tactics.

And she had a bit more to think about after what she'd learned from Minerva tonight.

Hermione shook her head at the offer. "Bollocks. You just want me to run interference between you and the first years. Give off, Minerva; you get to keep that privilege all to yourself."

With a slightly less forced smile, she let herself out the door and headed off grounds.

She _had_ to find out about Snape.

* * *

AN: Hermione's assumptions of Dumbledore's intention to have Snape become his DE spy is what I borrowed from Shiv's _De Mortuis…_

"Like too little butter spread over too much toast" is paraphrased from Bilbo in Fellowship of the Rings. Thanks to all the ashwinder folks who helped me remember where that was from.

Will be on holiday in NZ (squee) for the last two weeks in June, so all updates will be on hold until after the beginning of July. Hopefully I will get some writing done so there will be _lots_ to come back to.


	4. Chapter 3

_It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. _

_Of Human Bondage_ - W. Somerset Maugham

_First week October, 2016_

Panic had subsided in the time it took for Hermione to walk out of Hogwarts and Apparate to the safety of her flat. The nervous energy had failed to abate; however, it left her with a racing mind and nothing to show for it.

Hermione paced the length of her flat, chewing on the side of her thumb. When she had arrived home, she had run through the various possibilities for finding out about Snape: each one being even more unlikely than the last.

She had immediately dismissed the idea of buying one of the many books that told the history of _The War_. The authors who had written them were either completely unconnected from those of them who had been there, or directly under the watchful, censoring eyes of one Albus Dumbledore.

Nothing would be there that she didn't already know.

She had then dismissed the thought of going to the Ministry. Even had she still been under their employ, her security clearance had not been high enough to breach the wards guarding the Unspeakables' reports. As it stood, Hermione was uncertain whether they would have contained the secrets she sought.

That left her squarely with first hand accounts. But who was there to ask? The only person she ever remembered Snape speaking to on a personal level had been Lucius Malfoy – a man she never wanted to lay eyes on again. Luckily for her, Malfoy was still held under wand and key. There were some things she was just _not_ prepared to do, no matter how determined she was.

She stopped and frowned at herself. Her cuticle was bleeding and she tasted the copper tang of blood in her mouth. Irritated, she went to run her finger under the tap. Not Malfoy, no Death Eaters at all for that matter. Looking for Hogwarts' staff seemed equally futile. Dumbledore was dead, the miserable old bastard. Minerva hadn't known, from what she could tell. Lupin had died in the War, with his hands wrapped around Pettigrew's throat. She wasn't quite sure where the rest of the staff had ended up.

Order members? They were few and far between as well: either from death (natural or otherwise) or from retirement (voluntary or not). Hermione turned off the tap. Students? Few knew as much as she did; most knew far less. A vague recollection pricked the forefront of her mind. Draco Malfoy? Draco might know. She admittedly understood very little of Slytherin internal politics, but she thought she had seen enough to know that it was not terribly different from Gryffindor's own.

There was a connection between one and one's Head of House that lasted beyond graduation. As much as she could remember, Snape and Draco had been especially close. Yes, he was her best bet, but where was he? He had vanished quietly and unobtrusively. She and many others would have assumed he would have made quite a scene after his father's arrest. He had done no less in their fifth year.

Hermione walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on the hob. She could try a locating spell, but she wasn't holding out hope that he would be traceable. It seemed hopeless. She then began to pull the tea out of the cupboard.

A little caffeine was sure to get her thinking clearly.

* * *

When Snape opened his eyes, he could not immediately tell how long he had been unconscious. He coughed and felt his chest tighten in searing pain. The last thing he remembered was stumbling through the streets of… Hogsmeade? It must have been. There had been enough times where he had dragged himself home from one meeting or another - near death - that he would have managed one more time. 

But that still begged the question of where he was now.

In a bed to be sure, but not one to which he was accustomed. There were bedclothes for one thing. Glorious cotton sheets, soft and warm. Perhaps he was hallucinating. It was not the first time he had thought himself away from that putrid sink hole of a prison. There was sun; there was silence; there were warm sheets to wrap around him and ward off the cold.

If this were a dream, he was going to enjoy the reprieve.

Then the shivering began anew.

He curled his fingers around the cloth and pulled upwards. His face contorted in pain as the muscles in his arms seized. Snape rolled over and held the useless appendage to his chest. _Merlin's arse!_ His muscles had atrophied to the point of making even the most mundane of activities excruciating. It was a marvel he wasn't face down somewhere in the forest.

Snape took stock of the situation. He was cold; he was most definitely not hallucinating…

And _everything_ hurt.

Snape curled himself up in the bed and waited for the tremors to pass. He wasn't sure if the reality that he had truly been released was a blessing, or merely the next stage of his punishment. There had been solace in the numbness he had perfected after seventeen long years entombed. But here, in the harsh light of morning, he had no defenses against the sharpness of detail. He wondered what had been in those potions, and if they had heightened his senses instead of dulling the pain.

_Pain, pain, pain._

Something he was accustomed to, surely, but it seemed magnified after waking up – part exhaustion and part sensory overload. He had walked for so long, barely aware of the people who brushed past him or of the cobbled stones under his shoes. It had been so easy to get lost in the colours, too bright and vivid, and taken with the cloying smell of people. It was truly a welcome distraction from the pain, the discomfort, and the nagging reminder that his body was not in any condition for this sort of activity.

Then, just then, there had been something floral in the air, out of place amidst the unpaved streets of the village. He had nearly tripped when he noticed it. The soft warmth of flowers and cream had made an ache in him; a desire to wrap his body in it as though scent could be a tangible solace. It had been so long since anything had stirred him like that.

How odd it had been that the decay of incarceration had failed to yield any evidence of the putrefaction within. Azkaban had no odour – no smell at all. It had perhaps been the hardest change to come to terms with. After all, he'd spent nearly all of his life surrounded by ill-kept, teenaged students with their cosmetically masked odours. There had been potions ingredients, day-old tea, and the smell the house-elves left behind to bombard his olfactory sense.

Scent had kept him alive more than once, and then… it had been gone. Wrenched away from him with as much force as the hand that had snapped his wand used to break with a vicious _crack_. The pieces tossed aside while he could only watch helplessly as something primal in him splintered irreparably.

But then it had returned - invasive and wretched and sublime in its grip on him. Today there had been the wafting aroma of cheap beer and sweat, a musk that clung to the inside of his nose and accompanied by a strong arm, helping him upstairs.

Had that happened?

A memory misted his vision. Another brick fell. The Hog's Head. Aberforth, the ghostly mirage of his former saviour, guiding him to a private room and nursing him through spasms.

_"You can rest now, Severus. He's dead."_

Oblivion had never before been as peaceful as it had after that benediction.

It had been the first night he could remember where he had slept without nightmares.

Snape felt a vague sensation of warm hands rolling him onto his side and a moist towel pressed against his brow. He thought he might have screamed from the burning in his throat. Another potion was held to his lips and soon brought some relief. His breathing evened out and lulled him back to sleep.

* * *

In the end, Draco wasn't difficult to find. 

Hermione made a few discreet inquiries with one of her last contacts back at the Ministry. Last being only contact back at the Ministry. Short of lighting fire to the desk or bringing the ceiling down on their traitorous, underhanded heads, Hermione could not have burned more bridges on her way out. Disillusioned with the entire institution, she had rather effectively cut herself off from the friends she had made there.

Her one remaining acquaintance was one not many could have rid themselves of had they tried: Murtha Baca. A sunny, sprite of a witch, Murtha had passed from office to division to Undersecretary as a sort of floating assistant. Whether this lack of permanence was due to no one being able to stand more than one week of her boisterous optimism, or owing more to her remarkable resemblance to a bumblebee, no one could say for certain. Still, she flitted from office to office and remembered _everyone's_ name and birthday and was always up on the latest gossip.

So naturally, when Hermione needed to find a wizard lost from the public eye for the better part of two decades, she belted up and invited Murtha out for coffee one dreary afternoon.

"Hermione!" Murtha's mood never seemed to be effected by the weather, nor did her wardrobe. She all but ran Hermione down, wearing bright yellow robes and a hat - nearly as high as she was tall - covered in roses. It was almost enough to make Hermione give up her mission and Apparate far, far away. _Almost_.

"You look fabulous, bunny!" Ungraciously accepting the hug, Hermione slowly extricated herself from Murtha. She most certainly did not look fabulous in her drab navy blue robes, bearing one of the least flattering waistlines ever designed. Still, it was nice to be complimented by someone who could lie and do it well.

"It's nice to see you too Murtha," Hermione forced a smile and proved that she did come away from six years at the Ministry having learned something.

Not wanting to spend more time with the witch than necessary, Hermione quickly diverted them both toward the crowded London café. It was a popular Ministry hangout, though not strictly one limited to the magical world, which could be found by the more dedicated Muggle and as such, was always busy.

"Oh, it's been ages! No, don't tell me, you're seeing someone. I can tell these things, you know, dearie; you're positively glowing!"

Hermione quickly ordered herself an espresso. If there was any hope of getting through this encounter without a migraine, it would be if she were highly caffeinated. She took another glance at Murtha, who was now chatting animatedly with the bloke behind the counter, and changed her order to a double.

When they sat back down, her companion continued her previous thought as though she had never been interrupted. "Oh you simply _must_ tell me who it is. Everyone always said you'd wind up a bitter old spinster, but I knew better," Hermione began to clench her jaw, "and look at you now!"

"Really, Murtha, it's nothing like that-"

"Nonsense! Tell me what you need. Are you shy? No need to be, bunny, you look simply smashing in that retro-chic number."

"No, you don't understand-"

"Ooooh, is he married! How scandalous!"

"Murtha!" Hermione was reduced to shouting to get the blasted woman's attention. "I was just wondering if you knew where I could find Malfoy."

The witch frowned and grew rather agitated. "He's in Azkaban, of course."

Hermione waved her hand to clear the air of the idea. "No, I meant Draco."

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say. Murtha practically beamed with pleasure and leaned in conspiratorially. "Brilliant! You've had a thing for him since school, haven't you? Potter's friend, secretly carrying on with his sworn enemy – it's better than Corrie!"

Hermione groaned and dropped her head in her hands. The Ministry really should put a ban on that programme and do the world a favour.

"Did you lose touch? Did he run off with another witch!"

This needed to end, _now_.

"We were never… he… it doesn't matter. Do you know where he is?"

Murtha sat and took appraisal of the witch in front her. Her vapid, little mind swiftly catalogued every tantalizing bit of gossip to bring back to work. There were so few love affairs these days, after all. Coming to a conclusion, she nodded and reached into her handbag for a quill. She wrote on a napkin the last place she had heard Draco had been and slid it across the table to Hermione.

"Don't worry, bunny, I have a good feeling about you two."

Hermione rolled her eyes and sculled her coffee.

* * *

After she had finally extricated herself from her coffee date, Hermione decided she would wait until the next day to go see if Murtha was more on target with Draco than she had been with her. 

She Apparated directly to the countryside and looked around. She was taken aback at how typical it all looked. She had always assumed any Malfoy would somehow have managed to have their home look foreboding; an ostentatious manor surrounded by high walls that were covered in man-eating vines. Maybe even a basilisk to roam free and scare away intruders. Or, on special occasions, Muggles impaled on pikes to greet the more well-to-do guests. It was a large piece of land to be sure, but otherwise the house was very mundane. Had her parents had more money, she could easily have imagined them living here.

Hermione walked up past the well manicured lawn and knocked on the door. After a moment, the door opened. She was greeted by the sight of Draco in complete Muggle attire. He stood and held the door open in plain, black trousers and a freshly pressed Oxford shirt. She was so fascinated with his clothing that she almost missed the utter lack of surprise on his face.

"So you've come for the rest of it then?" Hermione stared dumbstruck when Draco began to speak.

"You shouldn't have bothered. The deed to the house isn't under my name and I have no assets to speak of. Really, you Ministry types should keep better track of those of us you have already robbed."

Hermione stood, gaping like a codfish, as Draco closed the door in her face.

"Malfoy, wait!"

She heard the turn of the door bolt and then the sound of footsteps retreating.

"I'm not with the Ministry anymore, Draco!"

Nothing. Hermione sighed and gave up hope that he was going to come back. She turned away to leave when she heard the bolt slide back and the door open again. Hermione spun around to see Draco standing aside inviting her in. He led her inside and to a sitting room, where he flicked an impatient hand to one of the chairs. As they sat down, Hermione took the chance to look over Draco more fully. He looked irritated. Irritated and tired. Odd, he hadn't even insulted her yet.

What was worse was that he seemed perfectly content to wait her out.

_Bloody Slytherins._

"You're living as a Muggle!" Hermione blurted out and immediately regretted it. _Fabulous, Granger._ She just managed to keep her hand from flying up to cover her mouth.

Draco, for his part, rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Gryffindors never could keep from putting their foot in it. With that in mind, I'll give you this one as a gift." He brandished his wand with a flourish. "Still a wizard. They didn't castrate me with the rest of them. I may even have a house-elf or two around here." He quickly held up a hand to stop the burgeoning rant. "All paid, of course."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something and, in confusion, snapped it shut again.

"I don't understand," Hermione said, fumbling with the situation.

"What I don't understand is why a fine, upstanding witch of the new wizarding world order has made her way here to speak with me. It took considerable effort to find some place far away from those who would jump at the chance to get me alone. I don't see any rotten fruit in your hands; so, I must presume this is not be a social visit. Tell me, Granger. What brings a Ministry… excuse me… ex-Ministry witch to the home of the number one persona non grata?"

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, suddenly aware that she would be bringing up parts of the past that must have been unpleasant.

"Did you hear?" Well, it had served well enough as an opening gambit with Minerva.

"Did I hear what, Granger? Being deliberately obtuse is not attractive on a Gryffindor."

"Dumbledore's dead."

"Oh sweet Merlin, where's my handkerchief?"

"I didn't like him either but –"

"Give me a minute Granger, I'm all choked up."

"This isn't funny, Draco – "

"Am I laughing? Get to the point already."

"They let Snape out."

The silence that followed was palpable. Draco's face became shuttered; the look in his eyes was icy.

"Get out."

"Draco, I know you two were close – "

"He is my Godfather. Now get out."

Hermione spoke hurriedly. "I saw him in Hogsmeade. You can't imagine what he looks like."

"Believe me, Granger, I can imagine."

"What happened to him, Draco?"

"You know exactly what happened. You put him in Azkaban."

"I didn't –"

"Maybe not, but Potter did, and Dumbledore."

"We didn't find out for weeks. I want… I need to know what happened."

Draco look tired again as his mouth drew into a grim line. "You don't deserve to know."

Hermione recoiled back as if he slapped her. "Of course I do!"

"Why? Because you feel guilty now? It's a bit late to ride in on your white horse to save the day. Come wave your wand over us, Granger, and wash away our sins. If you care to remember, I was absent from the war. Unlike you, I don't have any past atrocities to tell glorious tales of to future generations. Whatever you might think, my hand has never cast an Unforgivable."

He stared stonily at her. Age had dulled the petulance of his manner and left in its place… what? Bitterness? Ambivalence? She wasn't sure. One moment he looked bored, and the next there seemed to be an impotent fury in its stead.

It was compelling; he was another pretty puzzle for her to turn over in her mind.

"Ah, the vaunted Gryffindor curiosity," Draco must have seen something in her face. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. "You're dying to know, aren't you? I'm afraid that's not enough for me to continue this act of the carnival of the grotesque."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest but knew he was right. She had seen what was left of Severus Snape and now there was nearly two decades of curiosity that had built itself up around the man. Where had she been all these years? That Malfoy called himself persona non grata was true. He had been the only one who had cared and he had been the only one who had been powerless to stop it.

After a long moment Hermione nodded. She excused herself and left Draco alone in the sitting room as she went to the front door. She spared a last glance over her shoulder at the peaceful Muggle house surrounding her old nemesis before Hermione Apparated home.

Three days later, she received a large owl post.

* * *

Extended AN: A few notes. First, I'm preemptively putting AU warnings on this fic from here on out. No need for pesky canon to get in the way of my plot. 

Second, for those of you who've asked, October of 2016 would see Hermione at 37 and Snape at 56. When I had originally plotted this out, I had thought her birthday was in '81 so she was a bit younger. No matter, I'll adjust accordingly.

I believe I picked up the 'Aberforth running the Hog's Head' notion from the lovely ladies at Witchfics. shrug I confuse them with canon, so it could just as easily been on the lexicon. Oh well, he's still fun.

And finally, I feel I must apologize fro Draco ahead of time. Once I let him get started he just keeps talking and _talking_.


	5. Chapter 4

_"How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out something base, that's true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base!"_

_Crime and Punishment_ - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

The package from Draco sat untouched on her desk for most of the day. Hermione had relocated herself to the other side of the flat, ensconced with her next book to read through. She felt like Pandora; temptation had been wrapped in brown paper and laid within arm's reach, begging to be opened.

It also begged the question of why she was resisting.

Hermione had spent the night replaying the encounter with Draco instead of sleeping. He had been an intriguing enough conversationalist that, for a while, she had forgotten why she had tracked him down to begin with. It was disturbing that twenty minutes with a Malfoy could sufficiently distract her from the horror-show that was her former Professor. Guilt and intrigue warred evenly within her.

She looked over at the package again. The fascination she felt towards Draco did not overshadow this… fixation… or whatever it was that drove her to seek Snape's past. All that was required for her to be on her feet and across the room was to recall the image of the broken man who stumbled in front of her.

Hermione stood with her hands hovering over the package. _Open it. What's the harm?_ She pulled open the attached parchment again.

_It may be too much to trust a consummate Gryffindor to treat what I have given to you with delicacy, but perhaps you may put this to better use than I._

_Or maybe I'm just a fool. – D.P.M._

She wondered, not for the first time, just what he had sent her. The package was sufficiently warded to lead her to believe it was valuable, if not necessarily in market terms. She rested her hand on top of the package and felt the wards grow quiet; it had been spelled to recognise her, clearly. Before Hermione could stop herself, she began to pluck at the twine that held it closed. After all, it wasn't _really_ giving in if it accidentally opened itself. _Pluck, pluck, pluck._ Hermione watched as the knot slowly came undone.

With the decision made, the string fell aside and the package began to unwrap itself. When all the paper had fallen away, what was left was a small Pensieve. Hermione's breath caught at the swirl of silver that shimmered in the pool, and she took an involuntary step backwards.

_Oh my._

Harry, long ago, had tried to tell them what looking into one was like, but Hermione had never had the chance to see for herself. She understood that some things were easier shown than told, but taking a trip through Draco's memories was not what she had in mind when she had asked him what happened.

The contents of the Pensieve whirled and Hermione caught a glance of Draco in its reflection, looking exactly the way she remembered him in school. Hermione felt her heart pound in her throat, heard the throb of her pulse in her ears, and forced herself to take a deep breath. She really didn't want to have to charm her teeth back in place if she fainted, face first, onto the floor.

_Some Gryffindor you are._

Hermione shored up her nerves and sat down in the chair; she had no idea how long this memory was and she was damned if she wasn't going to be comfortable – gnawing guilt or no gnawing guilt. The runes on the side of the Pensieve flashed as her fingers brushed against them. Just before she touched the silver mist, Hermione wondered whether Draco wouldn't mind her keeping this a little longer to study the object itself.

Hermione's world spun and reminded her of why she never traveled by Portkey if it could be managed: the nausea was never worth the convenience. The passage into the bowels of the Pensieve had much the same effect. She was falling; falling through surface with the darkness churning around her.

_Airsick, carsick, and now Pensieve-sick. Lovely_, Hermione thought sourly. Her stomach rebelled despite the reassurance of solid ground beneath her very sensible loafers.

It took her several slow breaths before the room righted itself.

The pounding of a gavel finally drew Hermione's attention outward.

"That's quite enough of that. Remove him." The dumpy warlock in a droopy grey cap waved his had to dismiss the wizard from questioning.

The Wizengamot.

Ill-lit and ominous in appearance, it was buried in the basement of the Ministry. _Away from prying eyes,_ her mind offered. It had been years since she had been physically present in the room and the circumstances couldn't have been more different. The full panel of wizards and witches sat elevated away from the condemned, solemnly staring down their noses with unconcealed disdain. The stark sound of chains scraping the floor was the only relief from the deathly silence.

Hermione didn't think she could have named a single member seated; however, it did not surprise her much. By the time she had graduated, the average lifespan of a Ministry employee was only slightly greater than that of a DADA professor.

The jury box was conspicuously empty.

Hermione's gaze lingered on the Draco, face as youthful and angular as she remembered him in school. He sat on the end of a wooden bench, taut as a bowstring, and flanked by two men she didn't recognise. Where was everyone else?

It had been another lifetime when she had last been in this room, standing beside Harry in their Sixth year. He had been attended by a steadfast audience of raucous enlistees of Dumbledore's Army who had seen enough of the War to defend the Boy Who Lived without hesitation. The students had shouted recriminations and jeers against the baseless accusations leveled at their friend until no semblance of order could be reclaimed. The press – warned and invited by Luna – could just be heard outside the door and over the clamor. Fearing a riot and the hellfire of bad publicity, the Chief Warlock had waved a disgruntled hand and dismissed all charges.

Cheering in victory, the DA had hefted Harry in the air to march out. Caught up in the excitement of vindication and _rightness_, she had found herself in Ron's arms and spun around the room. It had been their first kiss.

Hermione shook clear the fog of remembrance.

But now the same room was nearly empty in comparison, and Draco was clearly not celebrating.

Lucius Malfoy stood and Hermione was thankful that Draco had decided to keep some things private. She didn't need to hear the litany of crimes _he_ committed. She had seen enough of them herself to believe he had been awfully lucky to not have been killed on sight.

Draco impotently watched his father be denied the dignity of walking on his own accord, manhandled, and then hobbled with chains. His Lordship, though, looking immaculate as ever, commanded his own poise. Hermione had seen him take more curses than she thought any wizard could stand (including no fewer than six of her own), and had even crossed swords with Harry before the End. Yet still, Lucius Malfoy looked as if he were ready for Sunday tea and not prison.

_Honestly, they must be part Veela._.

The two men with him were not so fortunately bred. The Aurors had not taken care to change them into Azkaban prison attire. All clad in the oil dark folds of a Death Eater's cloaks, battered, ripped, and rumpled. _Was it that soon after the battle? Or an attempt to make them look guilty?_

On his left was Rookwood, looking as horrible as Hermione had ever remembered feeling. He was one of the few Death Eaters Hermione knew on sight, owing largely to the fact that they had dueled – quite viciously – while trying to reach Harry. The red gouge across his cheek was hers. There were other scrapes and contusions on his face that she felt any Junior Healer could have fixed. Hermione thought it likely the Ministry 'neglected' to remove any imbedded curses that weren't life threatening. A thought quickly confirmed by the pronounced tremor in Rookwood's arm that he was trying desperately to conceal. He stared across the room, past Hermione's shoulder; his eyes flickered oddly in the torchlight and she wondered if he had been drugged. _How much pain could he be in?_

"Bring forth the next accused."

Her speculation was cut short as her gaze was dragged toward Snape as he stood for his turn. His nose was broken again, she could tell, even distorted as it was by the cantrip that rippled the air around his face. But the hastily applied charm could not completely hide the mottled bruising that dotted his cheeks, nor could it hide the bits of gravel that clung to his sallow skin.

That must have happened after he was taken. Certainly he hadn't looked like that when he had - _ Nevermind that now, Granger._

Snape shook off the grubby hands of the Aurors, unwilling to allow them another chance to forcibly subdue him. He strode unaided across the room to the chair of the condemned with as much determination as he would have had terrorizing students, or issuing commands in battle. Hermione was struck by how similar he was to Lucius right then in appearance. She supposed it was part of the Slytherin preparatory training: affect look of superior disdain at all times, regardless of personal discomfiture or circumstance.

He turned to face the Wizengamot and waited until all eyes were focused on him before sitting and purposefully snapping the restraints around his own wrists.

The Chief Warlock ignored the display and appeared to be looking over transcripts.

"Prisoner Snape, you have been charged with treason against wizarding Britain and have been shown to be in collaboration with, and a member of, the enemy group known as the Death Eaters and a loyal disciple of He Who Must Not Be Named." He paused to turn a page and sniffed. "At the time of your arrest you claimed to be under the employ of Albus Dumbledore in the capacity of a spy."

Hermione glanced over at Malfoy and Rookwood and was strangely disappointed at the lack of surprise that registered on their faces.

"No one has stepped forward to corroborate this assertion – not even Dumbledore. What have you to say for this?"

All eyes in the room settled on the stiff-backed figure in the chair.

Snape curled his fingers around the wood of the arms; white knuckled, he refused to answer the challenge.

The Chief Warlock look disgusted and forewent any pretense of reading the parchment in front of him.

"Your steadfast refusal to speak since your initial statement does not bode well for your innocence. Prisoners Malfoy and Rookwood have behaved similarly, and it leads one to wonder in how much else you have colluded."

Snape tipped his head back and graced the man with the same glare usually reserved to those bearing the names Longbottom, Potter, and Black.

"We have new information that contradicts your story. Bring in the witness."

The door behind Hermione burst open and a skittish, trembling wizard was being held upright by two more members of Magical Law Enforcement. He lifted his head, caught sight of the defendants and had to be restrained from running out of the room. She thought he might have looked familiar; maybe he had been a year or two ahead of her at Hogwarts – he certainly looked young enough to be. Before she could try to remember his name they had brought him up to stand before the court.

"State your name for the record," the Interrogator said, speaking for the first time.

"Hirtle, sir. Wayland Hirtle." The idiot was simpering now, bolstered as he was by the armed guards. Clearly sniveling had its limits, and was easily replaced by obsequious fawning.

"Do you recognise the man on your right, Mr. Hirtle?"

Everyone's head turned to watch Snape as his eyes bore into the man. To his credit, the man flinched under the weight of Snape's stare.

The witness continued on gamely.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir! Snape was my Lieutenant Superior for the Dark Lord, sir. Only old Malfoy here was his better, he was."

Three pairs of eyes settled dangerously on Hirtle at this proclamation.

_Lieutenant? What was the prat going on about? Death Eaters didn't have rank._

In Order meetings, Snape had given them the impression that Voldemort's troops had the make-up of a politely organized mob. The only factor preventing total chaos from erupting was a well-founded and continual state of paranoia. A room full of opportunistic vultures was not a place to leave one's back exposed.

Giving the lot of them rank would have been tantamount to suicide. A guaranteed way to halve the number of followers of the Dark Lord through career advancement alone.

But Lieutenant Snape? If not for the dire circumstances Hermione would have giggled. Her overwrought mind provided the absurd image of her old Potions master in a RAF uniform. Momentarily oblivious to the seriousness of the events around her, Hermione was distracted by thoughts of Voldemort handing out pins to the Death Eater who had tortured the most Aurors that week.

"…. yes, sir. Of course! Lieutenant... I mean, the defendant planned the attack on Hogwarts, sir."

The Interrogator leaned forward greedily. "Is that so?"

"Eh? Ah… yes, sir. The Dark- You Know Who was most pleased Lieut- the defendant knew how to drop the wards – planned the troll attack on Hogsmeade, too!"

Hermione's jaw dropped. They actually believed this rubbish? Well, of course they did. It wasn't as though any of them had _been_ in the fray themselves. They'd believe anything the lying, little rat told them; no matter how off base and ludicrous a story he concocted.

The only semblance of truth in his statement was claiming that there had been an attack on Hogsmeade; but it had been giants, not trolls. Hermione fumed. Snape had _nothing_ to do with the wards surrounding Hogwarts. It had been the house-elves who had done the dangerous work. Those bound to the Death Eaters were fiercely devoted – one only had to look at Kreacher to see that – and willing to do whatever their masters commanded.

It had been Lucius who remembered Dobby had been able to enter Hogwarts unscathed while still bound to the Malfoys. No one would notice a few extra elves, nor question their presence if they had. Dumbledore had a known habit of acquiring new ones as he went about his business.

Simple, really. Send a small army of house-elves ahead to break the anti-Apparition wards – who cared that they all died in the process – and then appear _en masse_ on the grounds while most of the Order had been dispatched to Hogsmeade on high alert.

Dobby had warned Harry, who, with the help of Dumbledore's Army, held their ground until reinforcements arrived.

Not that history mattered in a witch-hunt.

"And you say that Prisoner Snape was a willing participant in the torture and killing of Muggles?"

"Indeed," Hirtle said. His voice changed pitch to carve through the room like a shiv, and mislaid every ounce of deferential acquiescence.

The Interrogator failed to notice the shift, but Hermione didn't; neither, it seemed, did the three dark cloaked men.

"Well then. Thank you, Mr. Hirtle, for your testimony. Your own conviction as a subversive and Death Eater is upheld, but your sentence has now been reduced to no fewer than seven years in Azkaban prison. Aurors?"

An Auror stepped up to the witness, whose face bore no trace of its previous trepidation, and touched her wand to the man's bracelet in a complex series of taps. Just before he Disapparated, Hirtle turned and smiled smugly at Snape.

A moment later, all was silent again.

Snape seethed behind a wall of hair, fists clenched while he tried – futilely, by Hermione's guess – to keep a tight rein on his rage.

Apathetically, the Elders scribbled what they just heard onto a parchment.

"You have neglected to provide the Wizengamot with a representative in your defense. This is your last chance to designate someone to speak on your behalf, for sadly, Albus Dumbledore has elected to be absent from these proceedings."

Inhaling deeply, Snape slowly raised his head and stared solemnly at the Chief Warlock. The wizard was positively gleeful to have gotten such damaging, irrefuted testimony against Snape.

"This will conclude the trial, gentlemen. Unless Prisoner Snape has anything he wishes to add that might... ah… mitigate the retribution of this court?"

Hermione watched as Snape sat stoically and digested the implied offer. He turned and stared at Lucius for several long minutes. An odd serenity came over Snape's features, as though a great burden had been removed.

Snape turned back and faced the Interrogator with complete resolution.

"No."

His voice had been harsh and bitter, but held no trace of malice.

The Chief Warlock sighed. "Very well. Remove the prisoner."

The Aurors led an unresisting Snape back to his comrades. Before he was seated, Lucius stood – over the shouts from the attending guards – and placed a hand on Snape's shoulder.

"Brother."

The wizard dipped his head in acknowledgement and allowed himself to be chained to the other two once more.

"Prisoners Rookwood, Malfoy, and Snape: you are hereby convicted of treason against wizarding Britain, murder, and subversive acts done on the behest of He Who Must Not Be Named. You are to be imprisoned in Azkaban Fortress for the rest of your natural lives."

Hermione felt the uncomfortable lurching in her stomach and was ejected from the Pensieve before she saw what happened next.

She sat and stared at the walls of her flat while she contemplated what she had just seen.

"Bloody Nora."

* * *

AN:  
No real notes for this chapter. 

I was slightly put out that I resorted to such a clichéd plot device, but in light of HBP I'm practically _canon_.


	6. Chapter 5

_It is only those who are favored by fortune who regret leaving this life; but those who, like me, count their years only by their misfortunes, do not have cause to look upon the moment of annihilation except as the happy occasion of the breaking of their chains._

Letter from the Marquis de Sade to his wife, while in prison – July 27, 1780

* * *

Snape didn't leave his bed on the first day, the second day, the third, or even the three after that.

The potions administered to him were long acting, somnifacient, and thorough. It seemed that as soon as he reached any state resembling consciousness, he would feel the cool glass of a vial being pressed against his lips and the gradual slip into seductive darkness.

The medications, he supposed they were, were varied; some were acrid and seared his throat as they were hastily swallowed. Others were thick and syrupy, clinging to his palate and leaving him disgusted. His one consolation was that these, unlike the ones the Ministry pushed, were brewed correctly. He took some solace in the knowledge that whoever brewed them had more than a rudimentary understanding of medicinal philters.

Had he been stronger, of course, Snape would have doggedly refused them. He despised feeling that he was completely unable to keep a thought in his head. If he wasn't kept unconscious, he drifted between lucid dreams and the harsh light of reality. It was when these two blurred that was the most unbearable.

The fine line that separated what had been with what he knew now, splintered. The drapes, though drawn, fluttered freely in the breeze; the thick folds of fabric bellowed and reached out for him with dark tendrils that seemed to beckon him closer. Reached out to coil around him and drown him in oblivion.

A trick of light and sound and memory that left him clawing at anything in reach – including his own skin – to get away; far, far away from the vile grasp of those soul consuming wretches.

Intellectually Snape knew the Dementors were hundreds of miles away, but the stupor of drugs and anguish, and more years than he could count where he had been afraid, were stronger than any rationalisation he could summon.

It had been half a fortnight before Snape regained a semblance of perspicuity, enough for him to request to sit upright; or rather, grimace and struggle against the bedding until Aberforth walked in on these efforts and lent his assistance. From this position, Snape enjoyed being able to drowse lightly and keep one eye on his surroundings – the door and the window, but mostly the window (somehow, the drapery was less ominous and decidedly more inanimate if he could keep his gaze fixed on it).

His benefactor, as he chose to think of the other Dumbledore, was blessedly silent most of the time. Providing the necessities required for one who was bedridden – or as good as – and medicating him as needed.

_Nursemaid to the invalid_.

At least he had the sense not to hover about or offer to fluff Snape's pillow.

But he had forgotten Aberforth's twisted sense of humour.

On the eighth day, the first bowl appeared, perched precariously at his bedside. Ostensibly, Aberforth had left it for him to enjoy the contents at his leisure. Enjoy being the operative word. Snape had no intention of enjoying anything of the sort and had spent a goodly amount of his morning glaring it.

But it was just pudding, after all, and there was only so much satisfaction one could get out of quelling it with a look alone. Irritating, certainly, but no more than a trifle and consequently it had been beneath Snape's notice for most of the day.

That much disdain took energy, something of which he had precious little to spare. Snape was always tired, so very tired. A weariness that bordered on exhaustion, far surpassing any that he had experienced before. His body felt weighted down, pinned into place by some unseen force. When he attempted something as trifling as to reach for something, it felt as though he had leaden bars instead of arms.

It took a great force of will to move the shortest distance. Of course, Snape always waited until Aberforth had dosed him and left before exerting himself, guaranteeing him a few hours of privacy. He was loath to think of someone bearing witness to any more indignity than had already transpired. Better to wait, to wait and fight the soporific side-effects of the potions, than to abase himself in front of another.

Soon enough, Snape had progressed to the point where he could sit up entirely unaided. The day the bowl appeared, he had gone so far as to sit on the edge of the mattress and rest his feet on the floor. He moved his toes around and was surprisingly steadied by the feel of aged wood beneath his skin.

Grounded.

Confinement had never suited Snape, whether it had been the bricks of Hogwarts or those of Azkaban. He would prowl and try to exorcise the energy that crawled under his skin and howled to be released. Snape stared down at his feet, firmly pressed against the floor, and craved the solid support it offered. There was none of that restlessness left in him now.

Anchored.

Snape breathed deeply, feeling the latest of the potions come into effect. He set his head in his hands as he fought against an episode of lightheadedness. The blood rushed in his ears as his head swam with images. He had felt adrift for so long, Azkaban having wrought the worst changes in everyone. Snape had been no exception. There had been no protection, no secret Animagus form to assume and escape _their_ influence.

In the beginning, he and Lucius had been housed in adjoining cells, and had leaned against the shared stone wall to talk quietly to one another. Theirs had always been an uneasy friendship, thrown together as children and held there by mutual convenience. Later it had been the camaraderie of the condemned; despite being born to vastly different families, they had joined sides and shared loyalties – idiots that they had been. Their paths had strayed, only to come against the other, face to face, wand to wand, and yet still – still! – they had been dealt the same fate.

Ironic, but that humour had not been enough to see them through a limitless number of years. It had been enough, though; in Azkaban, even a troubled friendship was better than none at all.

Appreciated all the more when it was gone.

He had started to lose Lucius long before he lost himself. Snape supposed Lucius had far more to grieve for than he ever did; there had been no one left for him to miss. He had never felt anything other than avuncular obligation towards Draco, but could only assume that the loss of one's son and wife would rather intensify the loss of liberty.

Assumption more than proved by the number of Dementors that tended to hover near Lucius' cell. There had been more to chew on within.

Conversation, whispered intensely on Snape's part, had been returned with increasingly brief replies. He had still continued to try – as much to fight for his own sanity as to try to salvage Lucius – and spoke to himself. Observation, insults, appeals.

Slytherin knew a futile battle when it saw one, and wishful thinking had never been Snape's forte. A point came when he gave up and retired to his cot, in silence. He had begun to recite potion's recipes in his head, chanting the ingredients and preparations like a mantra.

Even this came to an end as lucidity became hard fought to achieve. Losing Lucius was more difficult than Snape had expected. He would have never admitted to liking the man, but there was something to be said for suffering in solidarity. Silence in any degree, for too long, in a place dark cold and miserable was dangerous. Particularly in their corner of Azkaban. It was never mentioned, but the snapping of one's wand had left them each broken enough, or desperate enough, to be easy fodder for the Dementors.

The Death Eater wing had drawn silent, punctuated at times by the desperate noises of the prisoners. He would never be sure if it had been Lucius who…

His train of thought was cut off as Snape struggled to get air into his lungs. _Thrice-damned pneumonia._ Once the coughing took hold there seemed to be little chance he would be drawing any oxygen in until it stopped. He hadn't felt this way in some time. His benefactor must be running late with the evening's concoction.

He saw what seemed to be a rather appealing looking potion sitting on the desk at the other side of the room. Not terribly far, just a scant few steps. He was moderately certain he could stumble that far, even in the grips of the _grippe_. Snape leaned most of his weight on the bedside table and stood. His legs shook – no more so than his hands, really – but he was up. Uplifted, he took a single step only to have his knees buckle underneath him, his elbow clipped the edge of the bowl, and sent him to the ground like a stone.

The bowl followed a moment later and splattered him with an unappetizing shade of what looked to be pink pudding. On instinct, his hand curled around the first long, slender item it found and pointed it at his body with a muttered '_Evanesco_'. He realised only a moment too late that it was a spoon he was holding in his hand, not a wand, and the pudding remained in exactly the same configuration it had been before.

The shock of the fall had cleared, leaving Snape to feel foolish. _Foolish, bruised, and as useless as a Squib_. At one time he would have gotten a nasty jolt from trying wandless magic of that sort – a warm rush of power in his veins, stinging with the reminder that magic needed to be channeled to be utilizable.

Splayed on the floor with dollops of creamy confections dribbled about, there was none of that inviting sensual heat left in him. He choked down a sob. It would have been a kindness to leave him in prison, where he wouldn't have known the difference between his nightmares and reality; tasted freedom only to be helpless to do anything for it, lying on the floor covered in pudding that could just have well have been filth for all he could do anything about it.

Self pity kept him company until Aberforth returned to rescue him.

The second bowl – appearing the next morning before Snape awoke – met its end with a satisfying crash as it hit the wall. He thought even less favourably of the offering after yesterday's impromptu refamiliarisation with the floor. (It did not help matters that the Dumbledorian fascination with Muggle sweets – which his benefactor had seemingly manifested overnight – had left him in an uncomfortable state of reminiscence and had plagued his dreams with lemon drops.) There was only one possible explanation: the pudding was evil. And, despite the petty pleasure he took in trying to destroy it, cleaning the drips of mush from his pillow had put a damper on that particular joy very quickly.

Definitely evil.

The third appeared the following day, out of reach and on the desk. The childish urge the fling the pudding across the room (this time without the mess on his bedding to dissuade him) was sufficient impetus to get him out of bed to deal with the third bowl.

Snape slowly sat up, feeling his spine pop uncomfortably in places. He winced. Recumbency had never suited him and sciatica was his only legacy from his father's family. He stretched, staring up at the ceiling. He was stalling and he knew it. Remembering the unfortunate position he had found himself in after the previous attempt, he braced himself against the table and levered himself up.

Once he was assured of his continued verticality, he took an unsteady step forward, wobbled, and took another. Another. And another. He made it across the room and reached out to grab the end of the desk. Not one to press his luck, Snape lowered himself tiredly into the hard wood chair and took a breath. He might feel as helpless as a newborn, but at least he was walking.

_Toddlers have nothing on me_, he thought morosely.

Number three met a neat, tidy death. Snape turned the spoon over, lifting it up to let the milky pudding dribble down. He scowled in disgust and summarily pushed the bowl to the edge of the wood and shut his eyes to linger over his enjoyment of the sound of cracking glass. The pudding oozed onto the floor in front of the door, and mercifully away from his slippers.

Number four followed suit. Snape didn't bother with how yesterday's remains disappeared; he rather thought it a fitting punishment to whoever kept sending the rubbish to begin with. With that out of the way, his attention was free to be pulled over to the other offering on the desk: quill, ink, parchment. They were appealing, compelling his hands to smooth down the parchment, to linger with his fingers dragging across the delicate texture.

Sliding them over, he worked the top off the ink and set it aside. Snape picked up the quill and found he was unable to keep the tremors at bay. He scowled as the shaking kept him from dipping the tip into the narrow neck of the ink jar. He gripped his wrist with his free hand and _willed_ them not to trembled.

He strained to thread the end of the feather into the ink, but each time he failed to keep it from coming close. Angrily, Snape stabbed one last time at the ink and knocked it over, blue seeping into the parchment.

He snarled and shoved everything off his desk. It was pointless. Everything was pointless. He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

He couldn't even hold a bloody quill.

Frustration flared and tightened behind his eyes, and Snape slammed his hand flat against the desk. The stinging faded, replaced by an odd sense of moisture that drew his gaze down. Lifting his hands he slowly watched the pattern of blue that began to stained his hands. He let it drip down his wrist before he wiped it on his sleeve.

He returned to his bed and dejectedly stared at the ceiling. Useless was right. He couldn't clean up the ink any more than he could have _Scourgified _the pudding off the floor.

_Useless… worthless… should have left him to rot._ Words rang over and over in his ears.

He barely noticed Aberforth come in to check on him.

Snape noticed the box on the fifth bowl day. It was a small cherry wood box with a single feather carved in sunken relief on the top. As he ran a remarkably steady finger over the design he thought it stirred a memory. He furrowed his brow but could recall nothing more than a sense of having seen it before.

Snape lowered himself into the chair and focused his efforts on lifting the lid off the box. His hand froze when the item inside came into view. A wand. – made of a dark wood, long, slender and utterly, utterly perfect – nestled there in the deep purple lining and tucked alongside it was a note.

"Mr. Snape," it read. "Despite the Ministry's new-found fondness for reparations they often fail to see the irreplaceable value of the item lost. 12 ½ inches, ebony, manticore talon core. What a shame to see its defamation carried out along side your own. A mutual friend informed me you would be in the market for something new. The wand you hold now – cedar, 13 inches, and a new colloidal core – yes, I thought that would catch your eye – essence of mermaid scale. You see, my boy, the scales of a mermaid will help you find your balance even in the most tumultuous of times."

"A. Ollivander."

Snape wondered what he would have done to deserve such a boon. He had no recollection of ever doing anything directly for Ollivander. There was no reason for him to have known about Snape's release, let alone send a care package. It made him suspicious of the gift, no matter how welcome it was.

Snape flipped the paper over and saw another hastily scribbled note.

"If this reaches you safely, I will send more."

It was unsigned.

_Ah_, he thought, _there was that._

One mystery solved, he could turn his attention to the next. _A colloidal core? How odd_. It made him think, though. He had been working with colloids some time ago, researching ways to stabilize some more volatile potions ingredients without altering their potency. He had found it to be immensely successful too.

He had almost completed an alternate version of the Wolfsbane potion before… before _Potter_ had darkened his classroom. Albus had kept him so busy chasing after the boy to pursue any of his own work after that. Shaking away grim thoughts, Snape turned his attention back to the wand.

He gently plucked it from its velvet nest and curled his finger around the hilt. Perhaps a bit too tightly, because his next thought, unlikely though it was, was that he had somehow broken the seal in his grasp, leaving the core to dribble out the end.

Quickly checking that this was not so, Snape held the tip in front of his face. Frowning as how cold and unreactive it seemed, he twirled his wrist and was rewarded with a gentle pulse of heat up his arm. Snape had to swallow hard at feeling that gentle pulse of magic course through parched system.

The wand clattered against the wood as he spun away from the desk. It was too much, too soon, too fast, that he was likely to drown if it lasted another moment. He took another step and leaned heavily against the wall. It was so close. He had but to reach out and feel that honey sweet perfection. It would be his again… and again… forever.

Snape pressed his palms against his eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning. His magic. But would it work? He wasn't sure if he could bear the disappointment if his casting failed.

Could he take the chance?

He had such little sanity left to spare. So little that the small blossom of hope that bloomed when he had swirled the wand, if crushed, would be nothing he could recover from.

He barked out a laugh. Recover from? As if life, as he now knew it, would be mourned for more than the briefest of instants.

Snape chose, though any wizard, even the most cowardly of their number, would hardly consider that the situation merited a choice of any kind.

He raised the wand once more and leveled it at the bowl with an unremarked upon steady hand.

"_Leviosa,_" Snape said, tensed in the long moment that followed.

Time stretched, the power taking its own course in building in the depth of his chest before extending across the bones of his shoulder, spiraling around his arm until it burst through his fingertips and into the wand.

The bowl, and its contents, rattled against the desk before slowly floating into the air.

Snape breathed.

Suspended at eye level, it hovered there. He stared at it, unwilling to blink lest he find himself the victim of yet another hallucination.

Relief.

_Gods._

Then the unthinkable.

The bowl dropped several inches, then held.

Panic flooded his veins. He redoubled his concentration, willing the spell to hold, but it a futile waste of energy.

The spell failed, crashing the bowl to the floor and splattering the floorboards with butterscotch. He cast the spell anew, but felt nothing.

The wand fell to the floor.

A strangled noise tore from his throat.

Snape stumbled backwards until he felt the solid comfort of the wall brace him. He moaned helplessly. The fates could not be that cruel; to give him a taste and then wrench it away.

_No, no, no…nononono._

He refused to believe it. Tomorrow he would wake up and tomorrow it would return.

And so he did, and so it was.

The next three days were spent in careful moderation as he tested his limits. He could cast multiple spells if they were simple, but a sustained spell would leave him sapped for the day.

So he would temper his casting with rest and practicing his penmanship and absently licking pudding off the spoon.

Temperance had its limits.

Snape hissed as the quill snapped a third time, spilling ink on the parchment. A quietly cast '_Evanesco_' to deal with the mess still came as a relief. Azkaban hadn't taken everything from him. He picked up the next quill and griped it tightly. It would break again, he knew, but anything less and his hand would shake too violently to do much more than splatter ink over the desk. The tip of the quill moved through the arc of each letter:

S… n… a… p…

He was half-way through the last letter this time before breaking off the tip.

_Enough of that._

Snape, it said. A forceful reminder of self as much as it was practice. Snape. _My name still._ He held out hope that when, not if, the Minister ever deigned to return his property (what little he had called his own) there was sure to be a mountain of parchment to scrawl his name to.

His hand twitched again to dribble a puddle of black that blotted out part of his name. Frowning at the less that subtle implications, he set the quill aside and banished the soiled paper.

Draining work, the simplest things were now. A constant reminder of how little was left of him. He was barely a wizard anymore. Bone-dry of magic and stripped of every source of pride he had once had. His hands were crippled, his magic absent. He felt emasculated as surely as if they had gelded him.

_Hands of the Aurors held him still. Needed to, to prevent ever fibre of his being from lunging at the Unspeakable who held his wand. To tear and rend and claw at him until he had what was his. Then to be forced to watch it splinter and crack…_

Snape flinched. Even the memory drew a visceral reaction.

He looked down at his clenched fists. Slowly uncurling his fingers, he stared at his palms, turning them over to look at the knuckles.

_Still my hands._

Pushing up the sleeves, he took time to look at his arms.

_ My wrists... my skin.._

Snape leaned back in his chair, dropping his hand to his lap. He thumbed the fly open, reaching past fabric to cup himself, half-hardened. His eyes fluttered shut.

He could still have this.

His movements were rough and inelegant, moving the tip of his thumb over secret dips and crests with the ease of long remembered familiarity. With a grunt, he reached his free hand lower.

He quickened his pace. This was right. The tension built up, spreading like a fire up his spine. The tightening that intensified as his hands worked insistently to one end.

_Yes yes… yes…_

And release.

He lay back panting and lifted his hand to look at the traces of proof that lingered. Proof he was alive, and whole, and human.

Snape tipped his head back and filled the room with his laughter. He wasn't broken. Beaten and weakened, surely, but still a man.

He dragged his body out of the chair and collapsed in the bed. The quilt tugged across his shoulders. Snape smiled into the darkness.

* * *

AN: This chapter had been delayed for more reasons than any of you care to hear. Content issues, muse issues, computer cock-up issues. 

Needless to say Severus and I bled this one out, and are going to have a drink or ten. This is going to be as 'dark' as it gets, and not to fear. They'll actually meet each other soon.


	7. Chapter 6

_Historians exercise great power and some of them know it.  
They recreate the past, changing it to fit their own interpretations.  
Thus, they change the future as well.  
_--Leto II, His Voice from Dar-es-Balat

_Heretics of Dune,_ Frank Herbert

_8th October 2016_

When Hermione appeared next at Malfoy's doorstep, she was clinging to the Pensieve and anxiously waiting for him to answer. Once he had, she was greeted with a crooked smile and a jaunty:

"You know, Granger, there are these marvelous beasts called owls. We magical types like to use them to deliver our post."

Hermione scowled. "How can you just stand there? Do you know what's in here?"

"Why, yes. As it was I who deposited the memory, I do believe I know what the Pensieve contains." He sighed. "Which if you're not careful, it will no longer. You are nearly spilling it onto the porch."

Hermione forced herself to settle down and not jostle the contents to the point they lapped up and over the rim. "I'm not going anywhere until we talk about it."

The stern threat only served to amuse him more. He swallowed the next retort at the narrowing of Hermione's gaze and stepped aside to let her pass.

"Get in before I become the topic of neighborhood gossip. I fear what they should think if they found that I was keeping an hysteric on my doorstep."

Despite herself, Hermione glanced around and immediately felt foolish for doing so. The nearest, neighboring house was so far away that it would have taken an impressive set of Omnioculars to even know they stood here. She pursed her lips and stalked past Draco and into the house.

She ignored his smirk.

Draco relieved her of the burden of the Pensieve and set it down on a high table on his way to the kitchen, where he plucked two glasses out of the cabinet and rummaged through the ice box to grab a chilled bottle of wine.

Hermione started in on him the moment the front door was shut and locked.

"Why didn't he say anything? Why didn't YOU say anything? They railroaded him in there. Why hadn't they asked for any of us? How did you get in there anyway? Who was that man?"

Draco brushed past her and went into the room they had occupied the last time she visited, and took his seat.

"I can only answer one question at a time, so please sit down," he began pouring the wine, "and drink something before you give yourself an aneurism."

With bad grace, Hermione swallowed her ire and joined Draco in his sitting room where she grudgingly took the proffered glass. He countered her second burgeoning stream of questions with one of his own.

"Tell me, Granger. What have you deciphered already? Certainly a mind like yours has pieced together some theory."

"Well…" Hermione stalled, "I know the Ministry was eager to prosecute the remaining Death Eaters. I know most of them incriminated nearly everyone they knew to name, but…"

"Not Severus."

She shook her head, "No, he didn't."

Draco left that alone for now and topped up Hermione's glass.

"You asked why I was allowed to be there, yes?" When she nodded, he continued. "Simple enough. They didn't want to give me any grounds to try to reverse the conviction. For as much as they wanted to get it over with, they weren't going to chance any of them walking free."

"But no one else was allowed to attend, I'm sure there were other children… what about your mother?"

"Mother was in St. Mungo's… no, don't ask, and you're forgetting two things. One, you have no idea who attended the other trials, and before you ask, I don't either. More importantly you must remember that this occurred before you froze our accounts." Draco leaned in conspiratorially. "The Malfoys had quite a bit of money."

The last bit was spoken so blandly it took Hermione a moment to catch that he was mocking her; she glared back at him.

"That still doesn't explain why Snape didn't say anything. He just sat there!"

"What do you want me to say, Granger? I couldn't read the man's mind. For all I know he could have been so bloody surprised to be alive that he couldn't believe it was happening."

"Oh, be serious! There was plenty he could have said; things he could have told them about the Order – things they would have had to verify."

"Of course, because they were oh so very interested in fact checking."

Hermione acknowledged the point. Frustration crept up at the realisation that there would be no simple answers here. She blew out a heavy breath. "Like that man."

"Yes, him. As I was not party to any of their dealings first hand – oh, come off it, Granger. Do you really believe I'd be sitting here, plying you with elf-made wine if I had? I don't know who he was, so your guess is as good as mine. He could easily have had a grudge against Severus – "

"A _grudge_?" She found it hard to believe that someone could do something so… so… _malicious_ for such a petty reason.

"Yes. Hard as it is to imagine, Granger, Severus had the habit of rubbing people the wrong way – paragon of geniality that he was… is."

"It was all rubbish! He said the trolls had attacked Hogsmeade, when everyone knew it had been the giants." Hermione could not believe people could accept something so fundamentally wrong without so much as _thinking_ about it logically for one moment.

"Was it? I assumed that the little worm had told the truth about that."

"Are you kidding? You would have had to be living in a cave not to know what happened!"

"You're not far off," Draco muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione broke off. She took a hard look at the wizard in front of her who, she noted, looked marginally embarrassed.

"I didn't spend the war tucked in my warm bed being doted upon by house-elves while you all were fighting. I was in hiding and it wasn't particularly comfortable."

"Hiding? We assumed…" Hermione trailed off and then shook her head to clear the train of thought. This was all most confusing and she didn't need to muddle it further by gossiping about the idle speculations of the time. "Snape hid you?"

"And Father, but this is hardly the point of the conversation, Granger."

"Together? But they… didn't he know what Snape was doing?"

"You mean did he know that Severus had long since defected? I don't know. I don't think it mattered much to him."

"I don't understand," Hermione said plaintively.

"That, Granger, is patently obvious."

"Why did your father… during the trial… they were…"

"Yes," Draco said, encouragingly.

"They… he should have turned your father in… but…" Hermione groped around for a way to explain it, "but they were…" _practically hugging_, her mind supplied, "friends." She stared at Draco helplessly in the hope that he would provide a better theory, one that would fit tidily within her understanding of the universe.

Draco simply nodded.

"But Snape betrayed them!"

"For good reason."

That stopped Hermione cold. It didn't make any sense to her and she said as much to Draco. "I can see why you would say that, but your father-"

"Was an evil lout. Yes, yes… no one is disputing that fact here." Draco waved his hand and leaned forward to refill both of their glasses. "I rather suspect Severus was given the choice of cake or death."

"Cake or death?"

"Of course. Spy for me, or go to Azkaban. Dumbles looked the 'cake or death' sort." Hermione, tripped up by the Muggle reference, found that her mind could not spin fast enough to keep up with Draco's logic. "Severus never had Father's connections or the means to buy his way out. Father would have understood Severus' choice – or lack thereof."

Hermione slowly nursed her wine, head tipped down, lost in thought. "I would have thought he would have hated Snape."

"But just think, Granger," Draco took a drink of his wine, "of what had happened. They were old friends, went their separate ways, et cetera, et cetera, and still both of them ended up bent over a table with Dumbledore's cock up their arses." He grinned merrily as he watched Hermione splutter over the imagery.

"Eughhh," Hermione shuddered.

"It's rather ironic, really."

Hermione, in a desperate effort to rid her mind of the unpleasantness induced by Draco's metaphor, emptied her glass. Acknowledging it was long overdue, she began to organise her thoughts into some semblance of coherence. The pieces refused to fit cleanly together and forcing them to did more harm than good. She furrowed her brow and swirled a golden drop around the bottom of her glass. Hermione looked at the man sitting placidly across from her.

"I don't see how you can be so accepting of all this."

Draco's face took on a hard look as he rallied against her assessment of his state of mind.

"Simply because you haven't given the matter any thought in the past seventeen years, doesn't mean I didn't take the time to come to terms with the reality of the situation. My mother is dead, my father would be better off if he were, and my godfather has been released from an unjust prison sentence only to face permanent ostracism. If you don't think I am angry at the situation, it's only because you are too consumed by your guilt to have noticed."

Hermione, cowed by the vehemence of Draco's accusation, blushed furiously and sat back in her chair.

He saw that Hermione was stumbling over old patterns. It was amazing to him that, having seen all she had, she was still convinced that being _right_ was enough, in and of itself, to triumph over injustice.

"I only meant that I don't… never mind." She took a breath. "The Death Eaters never struck me as a particularly forgiving group."

Draco stared at her for a moment before waving in an off-hand manner. "Who's to say they forgave him? Sometimes it's enough to have been there, and, well, misery loves company and all that."

Hermione was still unhappy. Lucius Malfoy did horrible things, and she could only assume Snape had as well before he defected. Defected and nearly killed the other man. One just didn't remain a friend after that sort of betrayal.

"Would you like me to explain the fundamental difference between Slytherin and Gryffindor? We're not all that different for everything that's been said. Here it is: a Slytherin would never put loyalty above survival. You'll never find a Slytherin martyr, except for maybe a strange few exceptions."

"That sounds so… selfish."

"Self-preservation is, by definition, selfish."

"There must be beliefs that supercede any…"

"Of course. Voldemort was a belief. Killing Muggles was a belief. How many of his followers died for the cause? True, not all of them were Slytherins, but enough were to prove the example."

Hermione paused, slowly shaking her head. "I can't believe you can sit there and defend the- "

"Merlin's arse, Granger. The first chance I have for a decent conversation in decades and you had to ruin it by doggedly clinging to twenty-year-old, adolescent dogma."

Hermione goggled at him. "You sent me the Pensieve… told me all of this… because you wanted an argument?"

"Not entirely, although I do confess it is definitely a perk," Draco said, smiling. "We all have our secret motivations. Did you truly think there was a think either of could do? Us talking like this, it doesn't mean anything. Tomorrow Severus Snape will still be a criminal in the eyes of the public and in their minds deserve to be sent back to prison."

The mention of Azkaban sent a frisson of anxiety through Hermione. She could see the haunted, lumbering figure of her former professor before her: his eyes bright with sudden fear and bereft of any intelligent thought.

"He doesn't deserve that." Hermione bit her lip before murmuring, "I should have followed him."

"Maybe," Draco answered with a clairvoyant understanding of her thoughts. "But now you know more than you did then."

"You seem awfully disinterested."

"You'll find him. You always did manage to find yourself hip-deep in the mire without much effort."

"What about you?"

"What about me, Granger?"

"Don't you want to see him?"

Draco hesitated and then set his empty glass to the side. "It's more complicated than that," he answered, finally.

"If he remem- I can't imagine him not wanting to see you, Draco."

"For having worked for the Ministry for so long, you are remarkably naïve when it comes to politics."

"Does that mean you can't visit him?"

"What I can't do is go into it with you or anyone else, Granger." Something occurred to him then, which he hadn't thought to ask until now. "Why are so concerned? He was never a favourite of yours, and this is more than your usual compulsive need to help anything weak and abused that crosses your path."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably again and despaired when she saw the wine bottle was empty. "I forgot you weren't there for the battle."

Draco leaned forward eagerly and grinned. "Oh goodie, this sounds like a story."

* * *

_19th December 1997_

It hadn't been the last of the fighting, or even the most crucial encounter with the Dark Lord's forces. It hadn't been as heartbreaking a day as when Remus met his end, or as bloody as the day the werewolf pack had been loosed on the Dark Forest. It hadn't been the first time Hermione Granger hexed an enemy in self-defence; nor had it been the day she found Ron Weasley face down, having been Stupefied near the outset of fighting. Who, it happened, not five minutes after she released him went on to earn his Order of Merlin by tripping over an unconscious Lucius Malfoy and boasting that he had taken down the notorious wizard single-handedly. It also hadn't been the day Harry fulfilled the prophecy.

Nevertheless, it had been the day the wards around Hogwarts fell.

Snow had blanketed the school in a layer of white down, though no more fell from the sky. The stillness of the landscape broken when the first giant heaved a bolder through the wall of the Three Broomsticks, but the quiet enfolding the castle had only been shattered by the thunderclap of ruptured magic. The very stones shook under the force required to break the anti-Apparition wards.

They had fought bravely for a small group of teenagers facing scores of masked intruders. The snow was a stunning backdrop of stark white punctuated by black hooded figures – all the more horrifying when made crimson by the wounded.

Hermione had become separated from Harry and Ron once reinforcements had arrived. She hadn't seen who had come up behind her, or even heard what had been cast. It had been Snape sprinting across the grounds who had been in time to deflect the curse. It shot past her shoulder and ricocheted off a tree to hit the wall of an already unstable part of the castle. He had incapacitated her attacker when she had only time to turn around and feel her heart jump into her throat.

She had been about to say something when the wall began to give way. Snape had grabbed her and hurled them both out of the path of tumbling stone, shielding her with his body. He had never asked if she were okay, merely held her head still while he bore his gaze into her. Whether he was checking her pupils or scanning her thoughts, she couldn't say. Satisfied by whatever he had seen, he had pushed himself off her and ran back into the battle.

It escaped her memory whether Snape had made his allegiances known by that time, but she did remember that the warmth from his body had lingered long after she picked herself up to rejoin Harry…

* * *

_8th October 2016_

By the end of her story, Draco was laughing with abandon.

"I don't see what could possibly be so funny."

"You…" Draco said between breaths, laughter turning his face a bright red. He tried again, "You owe Severus a life debt."

"A what? No… this is stupid. That's not how it works."

"Not how – Merlin, Granger, there's no ceremony to it. You don't have to cross wands and chant an oath to the new moon in order to declare it."

"But… Draco, it can't just _happen_."

This only served to set him off again. Hermione blushed. She stared up at the ceiling and worked to swallow the humiliation she felt at him having a laugh at her expense.

"I'm sorry," Draco said. He wiped the tears from his eyes. "I forgot how charmingly obtuse you could be."

"So I owe him a life debt," she stated, trying to convince herself of it more than anything.

"Oh to be there when you explain this to him." Draco smiled, obviously enjoying whatever imagined scene of discomfort between two socially awkward people he considered to be unavoidable.

Something about the way he continued to refer to Snape caught Hermione's attention. "You know where he is, don't you?"

Draco gestured eloquently with a wave of his hand. "I don't think it's time to change my name to Serendipity, but should you feel the need, I might feel amenable to indulging you this once."

"Bloody Slytherins," Hermione complained. "Can't you ever be straightforward? It wouldn't kill you to forego the mystery once in a while."

Draco gave a surprisingly elegant, Gallic shrug and grinned. "Maybe we like being mysterious."

* * *

_4th October 2016_

Snape made his way downstairs with the reticence of a man who had yet to come to terms with the inevitable. He approached the table at which a mass of unruly gray hair was seated.

"Sev'rus." Aberforth greeted.

Snape nodded and, with a carefulness that was uncomfortable to witness, lowered himself into the chair opposite. He gently set his wand on the tabletop, and rested his hand nearby (he was hesitant to put it out of sight, but not willing to chance being relieved of its burden by a light-fingered patron).

"Stew?" Aberforth asked, already pushing the bowl across the table.

Snape silently pulled the bowl closer and lifted the spoon. He prodded a piece of unidentifiable piece of meat before lifting an unhealthy looking piece of potato to his mouth. Unappetising though it was, he was not inclined to quibble when it was his first chance at a hot meal (lukewarm, tepid, or otherwise) in a great many years.

Aberforth drew out a pipe and began to pack down the tobacco as he leaned back in his chair to survey the room. It was lit in a brief flicker of orange before the light was smothered in a plume of smoke. Wizened eyes turned slant-ways to peer across the table. Severus' head remained bowed over the bowl, most of his face obscured by the limp strands of hair that fell forward. He titled the bowl and spooned the last of the dregs; soon, the bowl was emptied.

"Bit of a change from your normal fare, eh?"

The glare leveled at him in response was heartening, if lacking in force. Severus set the spoon down and pushed the bowl away. He froze momentarily before he gripped his wand and moved his hands into his lap. Only Snape, Aberforth mused, could make a movement look simultaneously unconscious and painfully deliberate. Aberforth sucked on the end of his pipe and waited to see if Severus would speak.

He didn't, nor did he seem inclined to meet Aberforth's eyes; however, the sound of coins clinking together drew a sharp look from the man. Severus paled and grew steadily more haunted as he stared at the bag of galleons on the table.

"For you," his benefactor said.

Snape grimaced, absently rubbing a spot on his chest. Aberforth sat passively. He ignored the look of contempt Severus leveled at the harmless gift, and drew on the end of the pipe, tipping his head back to blow rings of smoke toward the ceiling. Severus warred with himself; the battle with his pride forcing a scowl to crease his face. In the end, he picked the bag off the table and drew it down into his lap to be held next to the wand.

"I suppose," Snape said haltingly, "I owe you my thanks."

Aberforth chuffed, "What gave you that ridiculous idea?"

Snape blinked at the wizard. He glanced down once at the gifts residing in his lap, and snapped his mouth shut. He worked his jaw several times before vocalising a response.

"It is what one does in this situation."

"Nonsense."

Snape bristled and made ready to argue the point when Aberforth held up a hand to stop him.

"I'm just the barman, Severus."

He sat digesting that statement, and found it lacking. Barkeeps rarely nursed released convicts back to health.

"Regardless…"

"I'm just the barman. A businessman, if you will."

Sensing that this Dumbledore-sized circular argument could not be countermanded, Severus nodded and slowly rose. He felt winded and eager to return to his bed and away from the crowd. There were only a few patrons, but their presence was excruciating all the same. Clutching his belongings to his chest, he began the labourious journey upstairs.

"But if you're dying to prostrate yourself before someone," Aberforth said. Severus stilled, turning to stare at the back of his head. "I'm sure we could pass a letter along to the proper person."

Severus watched the wisps of smoke spiral from the cobbled end of the pipe. He leaned heavily on the banister and frowned. Dumbledores, he thought. Would they ever be anything but cryptic? At least this one had the decency to get to the point sometime in the same decade. Snape said nothing in return and returned to his room.

It had taken six tries, but in the end, the letter was written. There had been times when he would have gladly burned a mark on his other arm in exchange for just one Dictoquill. The writing – not as crabbed as it once had been – was a considerable improvement over those first miserable attempts. The effort, however, was staggering. Still, he was doing his damnedest to ignore how demeaning the entire situation was, and the possibility that he guessed the identity of his true benefactor incorrectly.

_Draco,_ it read. _It would seem I owe you my thanks. From the silence of those around me on the subject, I believe I am unable to deliver them in person. How serious is it? S.S._

He would pass the letter along and trust that Aberforth knew what he was doing.

* * *

_6th October 2016_

Severus,

One would think that after so much time, you would have been broken of the habit of fretting needlessly over those for whom you feel responsible.

No thanks are necessary. It's good to have you back, godfather.

Draco

* * *

Draco, 

Do spare me the unnecessary and wholly undesired outpouring of filial affection and tell me what danger you're in.

Severus

* * *

_7th October 2016_

_

* * *

_

Severus,

Muggles do the most curious things, don't they? Take, for example, their propensity for creating arbitrary and inconsequential 'holidays.' I wonder if they've selected one off the calendar in honour of godparents' day.

I could send you a gift. One of my more obtrusive neighbors bestowed upon me an electric kettle as a 'housewarming' gift, and still after ten or more years I have yet to discover how it was meant to warm my home.

Would you like it?

Your loving godson,  
Draco

* * *

Draco, 

I've asked that this be sent in the most convoluted manner as is feasible to ensure your safety.

I ask again, what danger are you in and why are you hiding among the Muggles?

Severus

* * *

Severus, 

Don't be ridiculous; I'm not in hiding.

I'm under Ministry watch, but it's nothing to worry about. So long as any communication from me goes through a trusted contact – one who _isn't_ on the Ministry's subversive list – there is nothing they can do to me.

Now do stop worrying and take care of yourself, for once.

Draco

* * *

Draco, 

I conclude meeting is out of the question, then.

Severus

* * *

_8th October 2016_

_

* * *

_

Severus,

Quite.

Never fear, it's only been twenty years. What's another twenty more? I'm certain by then they shall have realised we have no desire to overthrow the government and these restrictions will be lifted.

Draco

* * *

Draco, 

I never pegged you for an optimist.

S.

* * *

Severus, 

Blame the company I keep these days.

Draco

* * *

_9th October 2016_

_

* * *

_

Draco,

Where are you?

S.

* * *

Severus, 

I'm _fine_.

If you continue in this manner I will pay that bedraggled goat-tending excuse for a bartender a considerable sum of money to hire you a horrifically attentive and _Hufflepuff_ nurse.

No?

Then stop wasting your energy on me and rest

Draco

* * *

_10th October 2016_

_

* * *

_

Draco,

I would be grateful if-

Do refrain from-

Nevertheless I-

* * *

He scratched through each half-begun sentiment. The letter sat unfinished. What could there really be after that? Draco needed neither platitudes nor this incessant dither over his well-being. The effort to piece back together the life he remembered continued to prove unsuccessful. He found the remnants of his past slipped between his fingers, no more substantial than the nightmares that plagued his rest. 

Snape pressed his head into his hands and ignored the throbbing in his joints. If he were to be honest with himself, it was futile for him to struggle against what he felt. It went beyond the impotence he felt when his magic was being a bit bolshy, or the helplessness he felt when his hands trembled uncontrollably. He reflected on what he remembered of himself and what he had been to others and attained the answer: he had fulfilled his purpose. What was there for him? Nothing. Oh, he had been a marked man before – it wasn't the stigma following him around that wore on him. He simply wasn't needed.

It left Severus Snape with only one, final course of action.

* * *

AN: Hello! An update! My readers die of shock. Plus a cliffie! Well... as much of a cliffie as I know how to do. I hate hate hate hate this site. It ruins all my formatting, especially with already tricksy bits like the letters. So I apologise on behalf of this crap code. 


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